


wrecking ball

by Amber



Series: Create Something Every Day! (October 2018) [10]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dirty Talk, Do Not Archive, Exhibitionism, F/M, Femdom, Gun Insertion, Gun Kink, Humiliation, Implied Martin Blackwood/Elias Bouchard, Mildly Dubious Consent, Object Insertion, October Prompt Challenge, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex, Weapons Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-20
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2019-08-04 18:31:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16351904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amber/pseuds/Amber
Summary: Prompt 11: Object Insertion.





	wrecking ball

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SlowBrass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlowBrass/gifts).
  * Inspired by [A Hunter's Need](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15860625) by [SlowBrass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlowBrass/pseuds/SlowBrass). 



She knows what he likes now, that's the thing. And while there's no real skill in hunting the same prey twice, sometimes she just wants something easy, does Daisy.

Martin yelps when she catches him by the collar and drags him into the coolroom marked Employees Only. This is where the pallets of beer cases are stored, boxes stacked head high, and his panicked breath mists the cold air. "What— who— _Daisy_?"

"Shut up," she says, finding the darkest corner and pushing him into it, getting his arm up and behind his back. Martin moans. She snorts with deprecatory laughter. "Yeah, still gagging for it, Blackwood."

She presses her face into the back of his neck, finds the flush-hot skin and bites there, but— 

"Oh, you are a slut," she murmurs, and it's impossible to tell if she's impressed or disgusted. Martin wiggles.

"No, I, what? I'm —"

"Bouchard," she says simply, "If I'm not wrong. Probably not really a surprise, you made it clear you'd take any cock you were offered."

She pushes him harder up against the wall and Martin whines at the cold of it. "He just— he saw us," he tries to explain. "He called me into his office and made it pretty clear, um."

"Ooh, that spying little perv," Daisy snarls, wrenches at Martin's arm and he cries out. She slaps her other hand over his mouth to muffle it. "Shut _up_! Do you want someone to come looking?"

Martin shakes his head and she loosens her grip, slides it down to his throat instead. "No," he admits, soft, a little stuttery. 

"No. Because you get off on this, don't you." Martin doesn't say anything, and Daisy repeats herself, sharper: "Don't you."

"Yes," he admits. Then, tentative: "Please—"

"Shut up," Daisy says a third time, squeezing his throat. "You were telling me about why you smell like Bouchard's come."

"Right," says Martin, "Yes. I um, well. He told me he'd been watching when I visited your place to make sure you didn't — didn't kill me. So he had a nice view of the whole. Um. Proceedings. And he told me..." Martin takes a shaky breath, and Daisy pulls his arm up further behind his back to make it hurt a little more. "He told me he knew I was a slut!" Martin says hurriedly, voice pitching higher.

"Was?" Daisy echoes silkily, and her hand drops from his throat to his groin, feeling out his erection through his jeans.

"Am," admits Martin. "I am a slut."

"Yes you are," Daisy agrees smugly, unzipping his trousers and fishing out his erection. "Look at this. Getting hard in a public supermarket. Filthy, Blackwood."

"I know," he whispers, hips trying to push into her hand. "I'm sorry."

"So what happened with Bouchard?"

"He, um, he told me to get under the desk. And I thought he was going to make me suck his cock, but he didn't, just held me there and rubbed it on my face and in my hair while he jerked off."

"So I'd smell it," Daisy informed him. "So I'd know he used you like the cumrag you are." She bites his neck and he chokes back another moan, trying to get her to move his hand over his cock but trying not to move so much that it dislocates his overstretched shoulder.

But Daisy isn't interested in actually getting him off. What she wants from him is desperation and fear, and then her own relief. His is irrelevant, but then, he probably likes that too.

"I want to fuck you," she tells Martin, and the way he shivers has nothing to do with the chill in the air.

"I've got," he says, "Stuff. Lube, a condom." And of course he knows that she has a cunt, he's had it smeared all over his face, so she's about to tell him that she didn't bring her dick collection to the store and he would be lucky if he even got her fingers, but.

Then she has an idea.

"Why's that then," she says sweetly, ransacking his pockets until she finds the little packets, yanking down his trousers and kicking his legs open. "What are you carrying those for."

"Um, sometimes," Martin admits, "In the men's. There's. Um."

"Someone cruising for a soft little slut like you?" Daisy fills in for him, tearing the lube open with her teeth. She's stopped pinning his arm, just has him shoved up against the wall now, her concentration between his legs.

"Yes," Martin whispers shamefully, heated cheeks pressed against the cold wall, his eyes closed. And again, when she presses into him: " _Yes_."

"Quiet, now," says Daisy. "I'm working." 

Working him open. She's brusque about it, too, a real one-two-three-dick abruptness to getting him all slick inside, open enough to take her cock. Which she pulls out of her satchel without any further ado.

"Ready, Blackwood?" she asks, letting it press up against his hole.

"Yes," he pants, and then — "Wait, what is that?" but it's too late, it's in him, unyielding metal demanding he open for it. He brings his hand up to bite the back of it, muffle a yelp as she pushes it in to the trigger.

"That's not," says Martin, sounding like he might hyperventilate, "That's."

"I don't happen to have anything nice and silicon to fill you up with," she admits, smug and playful. "So I had to use what was to hand."

Martin makes a soft strangled noise. "Is that your _gun_?"

She doesn't even have to answer to smell the flood of bitter fear as he thinks about what could happen if it went off inside him. Daisy laughs, pleased, and fucks him with it, the grip comfortable and familiar in her hand as she works it in and out. Martin's stance slips wider despite himself, his hips lifting.

"Oh, you are a little slut," she says, pleased about it. "And what if I just—"

She flicks off the safety. Martin gasps, aroused and terrified.

"I could shoot your dick off like this," she points out, but she's using it carefully now. That would be a fucking mess to clean up given where they are, but she knows Martin isn't thinking logically right now. "I won't, though," she tells him. "Because what else would I use to fuck myself with?"

Martin is non-verbal now, messy with need, and Daisy eases her gun out of him, drops it in her bag to be dealt with later. "Oh, god, please," Martin manages, and she spins him around, shoves him hard up against the wall. Opens the condom and puts it on him — been a while since she's had to, actually, normally she doesn't let men do the fucking. But Martin has a fairly nice cock, and she wants to get off on it, wants to grind down on something real and human and work the lingering tension of a hunt out of her system.

She swings her leg up with ease. Bunches up her skirt, pulls her panties to the side, and climbs him to get him into her, forcing him deep. Daisy grunts. Her fingers just don't compare. 

"Don't you dare fucking come until I do," she spits at him, and then they're off.

She ravages him a little along the way; now that they're face to face she bites him, his neck and jaw, little marks for his coworkers to see and wonder. Pinches his nipples until he squeals louder than he should in public — if anyone comes in Daisy just might fucking shoot them, because she's so damn close.

When she finally comes she won't let him look, brings a hand up to block his eyes as she loses herself in delicious liquid spasms around the thick heat of him. She's left him dripping with her come when she slides off — and takes a step back. Fixes her clothes. She's sweaty beneath them, unpleasantly slick in her underwear, clit still throbbing from her orgasm. But she's not as much of a mess as Martin, who leans dumbstruck against the wall, still achingly hard in the condom but too scared of her to say anything.

"Missed your window, Blackwood," she says with a mean smirk, as though there was ever a point she wouldn't have punished him for coming. "You'll probably want to take care of that, but you'd better be fast about it. Someone might let the store manager know they spotted someone beating off in the coolroom."

She doesn't bother saying goodbye. Besides, she's pretty sure this solidifies it as a _see you soon_ kind of farewell.


End file.
